Trapped
by Jinx2016
Summary: Sherlock and John lyed in the hot sand, trapped in the middle of the desert. The only thing that made the whole issue worse was that they were trapped with Moriarty and Sherlock's greatest secret is on the line.
1. Prologue

Sherlock and John's car speed off the highway as Moriarty chased them with his black car. The new case with Moriarty had left Sherlock and John traveling to the desert of all places. Moriarty was apparently masking himself as a workman as they dug up artifacts of a pharos tomb. Luckily Sherlock and John had gotten wind of it just in time to get in the way and now look where they were. They were being chased away into the middle of a sweltering desert.

"Hurry, Sherlock he's ganging on us!" John yelled to his friend. Sherlock glanced into the mirror, stepping on the gas. Sand flew everywhere, dirtying the car they had _barrowed_. John looked out the window and his eyes widened as a gun poked out from the tinted windows. "DUCK!" John yelped. Sherlock frowned at John, not understanding, but soon understood as glass broke from the windows as bullets broke through. Sherlock kept low, trying not to get hit. That's the last thing they needed right now. The heat was enough of a burden already. A gun wound would just make this situation even worse. Sherlock went a little faster, hoping that Moriarty would soon be lost in his dust, but as he felt the car swerve he knew it was too late. Their tires had been blown!

"Hold on!" Sherlock called holding tight to the steering wheel. Their car twisted, spinning backward into Moriarty's car. The cars screeched, flinging their riders around inside. The doors burst open, trying to pull their riders out. Sherlock clung to his seat, trying his best to hang on. It was no use. With a tight pull of the speed whipping the car around Sherlock was yanked out of the car and thrown into the crumpled remains of Moriarty's car. The last Sherlock heard from his loyal friend was only a shout he had heard a thousand times, but maybe this time it would be the last.

"SHERLOCK!"

* * *

**Well, what do you think? i decided to write this one since i'm having a little bit of writers block for the other fics. i know what i want to happen in them i just don't know how i should write it. in other words it's the usual. So anywho...Trapped is about your favorite characters trapped in the desert with a criminal mastermind. just the usual for Sherlock and John right? Enjoy and thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 1

Sherlock opened his eyes to see that he was no longer in the coolness of his car but in the horrible heat of the desert. What had happened? Oh yes, now he remembered. Moriarty shot their tires and sent them skidding into each other. Sherlock turned his head as he lied on the sand, searching for his friend. He couldn't see though. Everything was too blurry. Black splotches lined his vision. His head ached so much and his arm felt like it was being crushed. Like someone was holding their boot against it, forcing more and more presser on it until it finally snapped. Sherlock bit at his lip. The pain was horrible, but he couldn't complain. It wasn't the worst he's had. Sherlock tried to pull himself into a sitting position but a flash of pain burst through his arm and down his left side. Oh, that was not good. He quickly allowed his head to fall back into the sand, breathing deeply. He attempted to shift his arm, but it was pinned against something. It was the car, most likely. Sherlock stared out into the bright light of the sun, eyelids slowly batting tiredly. He was so exhausted, so week. He just wanted to sleep.

"SHERLOCK!" Sherlock's eyes burst open; he knew that shout. Sherlock opened his mouth, attempting to shout back at his friend, but his throat was dry. All that he could let out was a dry cough that made him sound like he was spitting up sand. Never the less, it was enough. Sherlock heard footsteps rush to his side and someone began to pull the chunk of the car off of his body. Relief flooded over Sherlock. At least John seemed well enough to yank him out of this rubble. He couldn't be too hurt then. After a great effort from his friend Sherlock felt the weight on his arm disappear, and found himself being dragged away from the crashed vehicle. Sherlock brushed his good arm over his eyes, trying to clear the fogginess, but when he did he wished he hadn't. Moriarty was pulling him from the wreckage. Sherlock stared at the criminal, ears buzzing. Moriarty had survived and now he was standing here; right in front of Sherlock, taunting him that he can't do anything. We'll see about that!

"You!" Sherlock shouted, tackling Moriarty into the sand. Moriarty swung his fists at Sherlock, trying to pull the detective off of him, but Sherlock kept his good hand tightly against Moriarty's neck. The consultants rolled on the ground, fighting each other, but Sherlock kept all his strength on Moriarty's neck. The criminal began turning a horrible shade of blue and then purple. He would have ended it. He would have killed Moriarty, but Sherlock froze as another cry broke through their frantic shouting.

"SHERLOCK!" Sherlock loosened his grip from Moriarty's neck and ran through the wreckage, completely forgetting about the man who almost killed him. Sherlock yanked away scraps of metal, searching for his friend as he called. He yanked away the scrap metal to find John sitting upright in the vehicle, holding his head.

"John?" Sherlock called, reaching a hand out to his friend. John looked up at him, relaxing slightly.

"Thank goodness," John sighed, taking Sherlock's hand. "I thought you…never mind," John sighed; there was no point worrying about the great detective. John has seen the detective defeat death enough times to know he can do it again. Sherlock flinched as a flash of pain ran up his arm from John's touch and pulled away. "Sherlock, what's wrong?" John asked, yanking himself out of the totaled vehicle to Sherlock's side. Sherlock watched as John took his throbbing arm and pulled the sleeve up to inspect it. "You broke it," John stated, tracing his thumb over the purple and blue bruising. Sherlock flinched.

"I could have told you that, John," Sherlock spat, pulling his arm away. John frowned at him and ripped the scarf from Sherlock's neck.

"HEY!" Sherlock shouted, reaching a hand to his bare neck. John glared at him and forced Sherlock into a sitting position. Sherlock grumbled to himself. There was no point on medaling with it. fixing his arm wasn't going to help them get out of this heat wave. John ignored Sherlock's babbling and held the scarf up, folding it around Sherlock's neck and the arm.

"That should work for now," John stated, admiring his home made sling. Sherlock pushed himself back up onto his feet and stared into the open space with John. Wiping the sweat from his brow and peering around the wreckage John let out a small sigh and stated, "I think we are a bit stuck though." Sherlock rolled his eyes, whipping his phone from his pocket. He stared at the shattered screen and the dented buttons. Well, that wasn't going to help them. John fallowed Sherlock's actions and yanked out his own phone, but he only found the same broken mess in his pocket. They weren't going to be able to call for help now.

"Try mine," a choked voice called from behind. John and Sherlock turned around to see Moriarty picking himself off the ground with a hand clutching his bruised throat. John's fists tightened as he glared at the madman who stood before them. Moriarty glared at them and threw his phone at their feet, while he tried to calm his breathing. Sherlock hesitantly lifted the phone from where it lay on the sand and hit a button only to find no signal available.

"Drat!" Sherlock hissed, tossing the phone back into the sand. Now what? They couldn't stay here. They were in the middle of the sun and would die from the heat. Sherlock thought to himself the different ways they could retrace their steps. Maybe if they fallowed the tracks from their cars to the main road? Sherlock whirled around, tracing each tire mark back to where they disappeared past sandy hills.

"I agree, if we fallow the marks we can have someone pick us up at the road," Moriarty stated, stepping to Sherlock's side as he red to detectives mind.

"Who says you're coming with us at all?" Sherlock hissed at the consulting criminal. Moriarty smirked at Sherlock and patted his cheek.

"Oh, Sherlock, you know quite well that you need a little help on this one," Moriarty cooed. John stepped between the two, frowning.

"How do we know you'll help and not slit our throats in the process?" Moriarty smiled at John, about to answer, but Sherlock already knew the answer.

"He has something else planned for us. I doubt he wants to rush it," Sherlock growled. Moriarty nodded, staring back down at the track marks.

"Well then, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, shall we go for a stroll?"

* * *

**Dum, dum, dum, DUM! Don't worry; they're not going to find their way that easy. I've got some twists and turns in mind. Hope you all like this one! **


	3. Chapter 2

The trio slowly marched through the thick sand. They were tired, but they knew that stopping would mean death. Sherlock and John kept behind Moriarty, readying themselves to run at any moment. The last thing they would do in this situation was to trust Moriarty. They've seen how he works and believing him was something that could get you killed on the spot. Sherlock rubbed at his sore arm as they walked. He hadn't been as badly hurt as he probably should have been after being flung out from the car, but he was still being drastically affected. His eye sight was dizzy and his body throbbed with pain. Sherlock looked over at John, who was still clutching his forehead. John had been injured too from what he could see. The doctor had a long cut running down his temple to his right cheek. He was also limping so he had most likely bruised a bone or something in it. Moriarty on the other hand looked completely untouched (except for the bruises on his neck). Sherlock gritted his teeth as he stared at the madman. This man had survived time and again no matter what Sherlock through at him.

"You know it is very rude to stare," Moriarty called, glancing at Sherlock over his shoulder. Sherlock frowned at him, holding in the urge to strangle him. He couldn't kill him. They needed his mind and skill with traveling to get out of this. Moriarty had been through every kind of problem imaginable and knew exactly what will keep him alive. There is no doubt that he may know how to survive through their endless walk through the desert.

"Not my fault you're the greatest criminal in London," Sherlock hissed.

"The world," Moriarty corrected, humming an annoying nursery rhyme that Sherlock recalled from when he was a child. Sherlock shrugged.

"A name is just a title," Sherlock sighed. A wicked grin slowly curved over Moriarty's face.

"Oh no, Sherlock Holmes, a name is everything," the madman stated. Sherlock frowned at him; not understanding. He hated not understanding, especially when it was Moriarty he couldn't understand. Sherlock looked away from the madman, focusing on other things. He couldn't worry about Moriarty's insane babbles now. They were trapped in the desert and he needed to keep his mind going. Sherlock felt a shiver pass through him as he felt John clutch at his arm. Sherlock turned to see his friend begin to fall to his knees.

"JOHN!" Sherlock shouted with shock, catching John before he could hit the ground. Moriarty turned casually, watching as Sherlock held his best and only friend in his arms. John blinked a couple times to clear his vision and smiled back at Sherlock.

"Sorry, just a little tired," John sighed. Sherlock looked at the wound on John's head. Concussion, he guessed. That definitely needed to get checked and fast. Sherlock glanced at his throbbing arm as he forced it to hold John. He needed to help with that too, along with the rest of his battered body. Being spun out of a car at a high speed can do some serious damage, especially on the mind. The both needed the rest.

"We need to stop for a while," Sherlock said, more to himself and John than Moriarty. The consultant criminal on the other hand treated it as if Sherlock had spoken directly to him.

"Why should I care?" Moriarty asked, his face blank of emotion except for maybe boredom.

"Because if John and I die from our wounds and dehydration you will never get your chance to burn me," Sherlock stated, glaring at Moriarty with piercing blue eyes. Moriarty smiled at him with a smirk and strolled over to John's side. He rested a hand on John's forehead and looked around.

"The sun's beginning to go down so it'll get cooler. We should be traveling now, but like you said, we need time to regain our energy and mend," Moriarty stated, looking around the desert. "There are some small shrubs over there. We can use them for a fire." Sherlock nodded and wrapped an arm around John to carry him to the shrubs. Sherlock stumbled at first as dizziness threatened his eyes. Moriarty grabbed the other side of John and smirked at the detective.

"You're welcome," Moriarty stated with a grin. Sherlock frowned at him, but kept quiet. Something was wrong about this. Why was Moriarty helping them? He was unharmed; he could have easily made it out of here by now. Why hang around? Why help them? What was this madman planning now?


	4. Chapter 3

**Just a little heads up. this one is Lestrade's POV. ENJOY!**

* * *

"How could you lose your brother and John in the middle of the desert?" Lestrade hissed as he stared at a man in well fitted suit, who stood in his office doorway. He knew who it was and he knew that if the British government was now asking him for help Sherlock and John had to be in real trouble.

"Our signal broke when they were being chased by one known as Moriarty," Mycroft stated. Lestrade straitened in his chair as Mycroft uttered the name of the man who was behind that whole bomb fiasco. From what he read in John's blog it had been a close call for them in the end. Sherlock and John had been stuck at the pool with a bomb just waiting to blow them to bits. Now they were after him again and Mycroft let them get out of his radar? What was he thinking?! "I need you to help my men track them down." Lestrade let out a sigh and tapped at his desk impatiently.

"So, where am I headed?"

* * *

Only hours later Lestrade stood in the middle of a blazing mess of rubble and scraps. From what he could see two cars bashed together. Fires blazed all around them and the cars radiated heat. Mycroft's men were crawling over the wreckage like ants, searching for any survivors. So far though they have only found one body and that had been in Moriarty's vehicle. The body had been crushed on impact, but the passenger seats seemed to be fine. Hopefully John and Sherlock didn't get crushed in their vehicle like that. Lestrade shivered at the image that came to mind as he thought of that horrible scene. That would haunt his dreams more than anything he has ever seen. His two closest friends trapped tightly in a car like a can of tuna. Lestrade's stomach flopped just thinking about it.

"Sir?" Lestrade turned to see one of Mycroft's best agents approaching him. The agent couldn't have been any older than thirty, but the way he bounced excitedly on his feet reminded Lestrade how springy he had once been when first joining the force. He had been so excited about his first case until he saw the body. That's when he realized this wasn't like those movies he watched as a kid. This was all real life.

"Yes, um-"

"Agent Vermont," the agent stated proudly. Lestrade nodded, glancing around at the damages once more.

"Alright then, Agent, who did you find?" Lestrade asked hesitantly. He was afraid of what answer he may get. The last thing he wanted to hear was that his two closest friends were…gone forever.

"It's not who we found. It's what we found," Vermont stated. "Your friends and Mr. Moriarty's bodies were not found, but we did find their footprints fallowing a trail from where the tires touched the sand." Lestrade felt hope bubble throughout his body. They must be alright if they're walking. Quickly he pulled out his phone, punching in Mycroft's number.

"M. Holmes," he heard on the other end along with the soft clicking of computer keys.

"Hello, Mycroft, we found their tracks. It appears that all three of them are trying to find their way back using the tire indents in the sand," Lestrade said into the phone.

"Thank you, Greg. I'll bring in a helicopter to open our eyes a little more." Lestrade hung up once the line went dead. When Mycroft was on a search and rescue mission he didn't waste time. A chopper will be very helpful here. A bird's eye view of the desert should find the three MIA's pretty quick. He was about to put his phone away when something popped into his head. He stared at his phone and then at the crash scene. If Mycroft's radar couldn't get any service out here then how could he have just called Mycroft? If there was no service that whole conversation shouldn't have been possible.

"Vermont?"

"Yes, Sir?" the agent asked, staring at Lestrade. Greg held his phone out to the agent and stated clearly,

"Check for anything in this mess that could block out signals. Something about this doesn't seem right."

* * *

**Lestrade's in on this too now. I had to get Lestrade involved. I couldn't just leave him out of all the fun. Thanks for reading everyone!**


	5. Chapter 4

Sherlock helped John bring out a handful of bandages from the doctor's coat pockets as Moriarty tended to the small fire they had built from dried up old plants. John always kept medical supplies with him just in case of emergencies. They ignored Moriarty as they treated each other's wounds. They may have to travel throughout this hot wasteland, but that didn't mean they had to pay him any attention.

"Well, what shall we do other than ignore me?" Moriarty hummed as he stared into the fires. Sherlock and John remained silent, wishing that the criminal was just an illusion. "Oh come now!" Moriarty yammered. "You must be bored of just sitting here without speaking a single word." Moriarty's fingers tapped his chin as he let his eyes sink into Sherlock and John. The two looked away from him. Sherlock's mind was going mad by the endless silence, but he knew how crafty Moriarty was. They couldn't let their guard down. Moriarty's eyes shimmered, impressed by their will power. Sherlock glanced at Moriarty, noticing the dangerous stares they were being given. He had a bad feeling that Moriarty was up to something. The question was what it was. "You know what the funny thing about you is, Sherlock?" Moriarty asked. Sherlock kept his eyes on the fire. "When I look at you I see something different than what I see in the usual human beings that live on this boring planet. Something hidden," Moriarty glared at Sherlock with a haunting smile. "Care to tell what-"

"Leave him alone," John grumbled, finally bringing his gaze up from the blazing ribbons of fire. Moriarty didn't even try to suppress the laugh that tickled his sides. John's body tensed at the all too manic laugh along with Sherlock.

"As loyal as ever," Moriarty mused. "Tell me. How can you trust a man you barely know anything about?" Moriarty asked, snickering evilly. John's eyes stayed on the consulting detective. His fists were balled up into tight fists and his eyes were blazing almost as brightly as the fire.

"That, Moriarty, is something you will never understand," John hissed through his teeth. The smug smile left Moriarty's face.

"I may know more than what you may think," Moriarty hissed back at John. It was John's turn to laugh now.

"How so?" the old army doctor asked, arms crossing across his chest. Moriarty glared at him, but kept silent. It was his turn to play the silent treatment, but not before he turned to Sherlock once more stating,

"The shocking truth of Sherlock Holmes…will we ever get to hear that fairy tale?" The consulting criminal then simply just lied back in the sand, closing his piercing eyes. John watched as the consultant's breathing evened out and his features calmed. Now they were finally alone. John scanned Moriarty one more time and then turned his attention back to his friend, who was still staring into the red and orange flames that danced against the dry plants they had gathered.

"How's your arm?" John asked, trying to break the maddening silence.

"Fine. How's your head?" Sherlock answered back. John's hand automatically rose to the wound on his head.

"Fine," John mimicked, rubbing the bandaged sore on his head. John's hand fell from his skull and swatted at the warm sand. It was a little colder during the night, but it was still warm enough to kill. They had to get out of here before they grew overheated; and by how hot it was this morning it appears that will happen pretty quickly. John's eyes rose to look at Sherlock once more.

"Sherlock-"

"No."

"What?"

"No, I will not tell you what that maniac meant. In fact, I don't think that conversation is likely to come back ever again after this," Sherlock hissed. He did not feel like reminiscing over his past tonight. John let out a sigh, indicating that he had figured as much.

"I don't suppose that Mycroft may know anything?" John asked hopefully.

"Mycroft does, but I doubt that he will say anything about it. It's the same story for him as well," Sherlock sighed as images of his past curled out from the deepest hallways of his mind palace. A small smile curved over his lips, which John noticed immediately. The doctor didn't ask though why he was smiling. This confused Sherlock.

"The smile is reassuring," John pointed out after realizing Sherlock's confusion.

"I see," Sherlock sighed, lifting his eyes from the fire and to John.

"No you don't," John stated, poking at the fire with a dried up stick, sending sparks into the air. Sherlock nodded in agreement.

"Why didn't we just chase after Moriarty the easy way?" Sherlock sighed, lying back into the sand to stare at the dozens of stars that made the black sky almost white with their bright light.

"Because you said that it would be more fun that way and you're an idiot." Sherlock glared at John, but it quickly disintegrated into a wide smile, causing the two to laugh happily.

* * *

The two were so caught up with talking and laughing that they didn't notice I smiling Moriarty, who lied on his side, turned away from them. He wasn't asleep like John and Sherlock had figured. He was listening; listening and downloading bit and pieces that would be the most helpful in his plans. He had heard what he needed. Mycroft was who he needed now.

* * *

**Sherlock is hiding something, but the question is what is it? Apparently only he or Mycroft can give you that answer. Who do you think Moriarty will get the information from first for his big bad plan? Let me know what you think. Thanks for reading! **


	6. Chapter 5

John and Sherlock lied in the hot sand as they lied in the middle of the desert. There were so many ways this could have been worse, but of course they got stuck with the worst outcome. They got stuck with Moriarty.

"Come along boys!" Moriarty chimed, excitedly. The two groaned tiredly as they lied on the warm sand, not wanting to move. They were so hot and tired, all they wanted to do was sleep, but that would mean certain death for sure. The heat and their weariness wasn't the worst of it though. The pain in their bodies had to be the worst. After being chucked around from vehicles their bodies felt like they had his concrete from a fast speed. Neither of them showed the pain though. They knew better than to show pain in front of a man who almost blew them up.

Moriarty glowered down at them with an evil grin that made their skin crawl; it was the same maddening smile playing at his lips that they had first encountered at the pool so long ago.

"What's got you so excited?" John asked. Moriarty held out a hand to John to help him up from the desert floor, but Sherlock's beat him there. John Watson apparently wasn't the only one with trust issues. Sherlock helped John up, ignoring the look he was getting from Moriarty.

"Oh, nothing you should worry you're little head about, Johny-boy," Moriarty stated, waving his hand at him. "You have enough trouble keeping Sherlock under control." Sherlock stayed silent, not snapping back at the insult. He wasn't going to fall for whatever Moriarty was planning. The only way to be sure of not doing exactly that was to keep silent. John noticed Sherlock's silence though and knew that something wasn't right. John tapped Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock glanced at him in the corner of his eye, nodding at the doctor to inform him that he was fine. John wasn't the only one watching though. "Hmmm…what would you do without each other?" Moriarty pondered, tapping a finger against his chin. He stared at them like he was putting pieces of a puzzle together. Sherlock's teeth ground together. He didn't know what Moriarty was up to, but he had a feeling that it wasn't good.

"We better get going," John stated as the bad vive between the three of them began to grow thicker. "The closer we get to home the farther we are away from you." Moriarty stuck out his lip, pouting slightly from John's words.

"Oh, but aren't you having fun?" Moriarty asked, tilting his head like a puppy.

"Oddly enough, no!"

"That's my line," Sherlock pouted, glancing from where he had been starring to John's direction.

"Not today," John replied, smirking at Sherlock.

"Oh, the flirting," Moriarty sighed, giggling silently to himself.

"We're not flirting," John hissed at the madman. Moriarty held up his hands, not even attempting to suppress his smile as the ex-army doctor raised a fist at him.

"Whatever you say." Moriarty turned on his heels, starring at the tracks that lead farther out into the desert. "I agree though, it's time to get out of here," he stated, stepping next to Sherlock, who had already begun walking over the tracks. Sherlock didn't look at him. He was too busy staring out into the distance that waited ahead of them. There was something out there; something dangerous brewing in the air. John joined them and the three went on their way in the hot sand.

* * *

It couldn't have been more than an hour of walking before Sherlock was positive that there was something out in the distance and it was coming right for them.

"Um…does anyone else see what I see?" John asked, watching as sand spun around in the distance.

"What, the sand storm that has been coming closer to us since we woke up this morning? Yes, John, of course we have. How observant you are," Sherlock mumbled as they stared at the sand storm that was coming for them at high speeds.

"Yeah, yeah, no need to be rude, Sherlock," John groaned, trying to hold back the urge to punch the idiot detective. "Any ideas, Sherlock?" John mumbled, glancing over at his friend.

"One," Sherlock stated, wetting his lips. "Run!" With that said Sherlock grabbed John's hand and ran in the opposite direction of the sand storm that threatened them. Moriarty fallowed close behind them as they ran, but stopped after taking only a few strides. John and Sherlock stopped with him, staring at him in confusion.

"What the hell are you doing? There's a sand storm!" John shouted. Moriarty smiled evilly and turned his attention onto Sherlock.

"Sorry, but I better be off. It was fun, Sherlock, but I have a few plans for our future to prepare for," Moriarty stated. Sherlock frowned at him.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock enquired, staring at Moriarty in confusion.

"You'll get to see very soon now, Sherlock. Our problem; the final problem will be coming very, very soon and there is nothing you or anyone else can do about it," Moriarty's voice turned as cold as ice at the last bit and as if he was magic a ladder fell from the sky next to Moriarty. Sherlock looked up to see a helicopter hovering above their heads, waiting patiently for Moriarty. Sherlock gritted his teeth together. He had been right. Moriarty had been planning something all along.

"Ta, ta for now boys!" That was the last Sherlock or John heard of the madman, who they had been stuck with in the center of the desert with. Everything else he might have said was lost in the loud blast of wind and sand that spun around John and Sherlock. Sherlock covered his face as sand was pelted against it, pulling his scarf up so he wouldn't breathe in the horrid soil.

"Sherlock?!" he could hear the faint call of his friend John Watson in the background, but he couldn't see anything. Everything was just a blur of red as the sand blinded them of the world they stood on. All Sherlock could do was answer back to his friend, hoping that maybe somehow the doctor could hear him too or find him in this mess. Sherlock knew that was not going to happen though. The storm was too wicked. They were trapped; trapped in a desert sand storm with only one way out; death.

* * *

Moriarty sat in his helicopter watching as the sand completely swallowed Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. He laughed, wondering how they were going to escape this time. However, he knew that they would. They had to. He had far too many plans set up for their future. He had gotten what he wanted from them. He has seen Sherlock's relationship with his _friends_. Now he just needed one more little thing to make his plan fall into perfect order. He just needed the secret; the secret that Sherlock Holmes tries so hard to hide from the world.

* * *

**Well, it looks like this is starting to come close to its conclusion now. I'll make sure to put up the others soon for you guys. Let me know what you think!**


	7. Chapter 6

**Lestrade's POV**

* * *

"We found what was causing the radar to go on the blink," Lestrade stated on entering Mycroft's office. Mycroft was sitting at his desk with a cup of tea and his phone; not even aware of the DI before he spoke. Mycroft looked up from his phone and stared at Lestrade, completely blank of any and all emotion. Lestrade tossed a dented phone at Mycroft. "Looks like Moriarty's battery chip had some kind of blocker in it. Once the battery died so did the blocker." Mycroft turned the criminal's phone in his hand, checking it over and over again. "We also found pieces of Sherlock's and John's phones so by the looks of it they used Moriarty's only to find that there _wasn't_ any signal.

"Can we trace them now then?" Mycroft asked, directing the question to Anthea, who was standing by his side, clunking at her phone. Anthea nodded.

"Yes, sir, we have men on it right now," she stated, not even looking up from her phone. Mycroft nodded, looking back to Lestrade, who was fiddling with his fingers.

"Are you worried?" Mycroft asked, watching Lestrade carefully. The DI noticed his habit and shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

"Well, yeah, of course I am. They're my best friends!" Lestrade stated, rocking on his feet, uncomfortably. Mycroft's eyes swept over Lestrade and then turned back to Moriarty's phone. Lestrade stared at it with him, wondering why Moriarty had purposefully cut off any signals. It was like he had been planning all of this from the very beginning.

"May I have my phone back now?" a giggly voice called from behind. Mycroft's eyes dashed up, staring behind Lestrade to the doorway. Mycroft's eyes flashed briefly with fear and even Anthea looked up in surprise. Slowly, Lestrade turned around, dreading what or _who_ he may see. Lestrade's eyes settled on a man with dark slicked back hair and a Westwood suit. He had heard thousands of stories from John and Sherlock about a man like this. Never did he think that one day they would actually meat.

"Moriarty," Lestrade gasped, his voice quivering slightly. Moriarty smiled at him with a childish grin and nodded.

"Yes, and from what I have just heard you are one of Sherlock's…_friends_. Interesting," Moriarty mused, eyeing Lestrade carefully with his dark eyes. Lestrade flinched as Moriarty spoke. Why did he find being a friend of Sherlock Holmes so amusing? Yes, Sherlock can be arrogant and un-thoughtful at times, but he never lets you down when you need him.

"Where are my brother and Dr. Watson?" Mycroft asked, standing from his seat at his desk. Moriarty turned his dark eyes on Mycroft, smiling evilly.

"Well now, that is a long story. I on the other hand would like to hear about a different fairy tale at the moment," Moriarty chuckled.

"God damb it, Moriarty!" Lestrade shouted, slamming a fist against Mycroft's desk. "Quit with all the riddles and tell us where they are or I'll-"

"Or you'll what?" Moriarty asked coldly. "I am Moriarty; king of the criminal world. It will take much more than just you and your little parade of girl scouts to take me down." Lestrade bit down hard on his lip; anger building up inside him. Lestrade felt Mycroft's hand on his shoulder, telling him that the government can handle this. Lestrade reluctantly stepped back and watched as Mycroft and Moriarty stood proudly.

"What do you want?" Mycroft asked the criminal mastermind. A Cheshire cat like smile curved over the detective's dark complexion. He didn't say anything, but Mycroft's reaction made it appear that he had just dropped the world on Mycroft's shoulders.

"Never," Mycroft whispered through gritted teeth. Moriarty slowly walked around Mycroft, inspecting the older Holmes.

"You two are very alike you know."

"We really aren't," Mycroft argued, keeping his eyes planted on the consulting criminal.

"No, but you are hiding the same secret; a secret that interests me greatly," Moriarty chimed. Lestrade flinched as he noticed Mycroft's face contort with fear for a brief second before plastering on the emotionless mask. He never seen Mycroft scared before. He knew that if this icy Holmes was afraid they had to be in big trouble.

"Why would I tell you anything about that?" Mycroft hissed; his fists clenching and unclenching. Moriarty stopped walking in circles around Mycroft and stared at the elder Holmes with those darkened eyes.

"Because I have something you want."

"My people are already sending out radar searches for them," Mycroft spat.

"Oh, no, no, no," Moriarty singed, a smile curving over his lips again. "This is not about Sherlock…well, I guess it is since it's him who I'm coming after soon, but I have something else that you may want."

"What?" Mycroft asked; he was clearly intrigued, but also furious. Moriarty giggled silently to himself, making Lestrade shiver. The consulting detective was everything he had heard. He was intelligent, evil, and mad.

"The key; the key that could topple the whole world right from the push of a button," Moriarty cackled, amused by the nervous look that was slowly climbing Mycroft's face. Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but was rudely interrupted by the theme of staying alive. Moriarty lifted the phone checking his messages.

"Well, I better be off," the consultant sighed, pocketed his phone after reading the text. "Tell Sherlock that I look forward to seeing him again. Maybe next time he'll be more of a challenge." Moriarty turned his back, disappearing into the hall way.

* * *

Mycroft poured himself a drink once they were no longer in earshot of the criminal. He offered Lestrade some, but the DI refused. He couldn't process this all. It was just insane. He didn't understand a word that left the criminal and elder Holmes's mouth. The things that left Moriarty's mouth about a secret sent endless shivers up his spine.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" Lestrade asked. Mycroft shook his head, taking another sip from his glass; his fingers were trembling slightly. Lestrade frowned at him. "I don't understand. You ask me to help watch over your little brother, but then when I ask you anything that may help me protect him you shove me away!" Lestrade screamed, slamming his hands down on Mycroft's desks. Mycroft didn't look at Lestrade, he simply turned to the window, staring out it, but not really staring at what lied beyond it.

"It's a long story that neither of wish to relive," Mycroft finally stated. Lestrade's body un-tensed, waiting for Mycroft to carry on. Mycroft took a deep breath, "Sherlock-" Mycroft stopped as Anthea's phone suddenly began buzzing in her hands. Lestrade flinched; he had completely forgotten that she was there with them. She glanced at her boss and Lestrade and looked over her text. Her eyes widened and lifted to Mycroft's. Her mouth hung open to say something, but nothing would come out.

"Anthea, what's wrong?" Mycroft asked. Anthea handed him the phone, taking in a deep breath.

"Agent Vermont just got done running the radar scans on Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson," she stated. Lestrade's heart clenched. Why had her face gone so pale? Was something wrong? Anthea took a deep breath, continuing, "There was a sand storm in the area they were detected, sir…I'm sorry, but…they've been buried alive." Lestrade's ankles buckled and he had to grab for the wall to keep himself from crumpling to the floor. His heart threatened to jump from his chest as the news stabbed him like daggers. How were they going to save them now?

* * *

**So…Moriarty is putting his chess pieces together now for his plan. The question is will he have two less pieces then what he had hoped for. Hope you are enjoying this. It's almost done now. There's just a little bit more to go yet so hang on.**


	8. Chapter 7

"John?!" Sherlock rasped coughing violently as he ran blindly through the thick sand that blew around him. He couldn't see, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't hear. Everything was just a horribly crazy mess and it was not going to get anybetter. He was alone in the middle of a sandstorm with his best friend missing. Could anything get worse? It did, though. A huge gust of wind sent Sherlock tumbling facedown into the thick sand. His arm twinged as he landed on top of it. He gasped, biting his lip to keep from screaming in agony. A broken arm was really not helping him in this situation very much. Sherlock tried to lift himself up, but his exhausted body refused. The bruises from his fall from the car and the extreme heat was starting to gain up on him all at once now. He couldn't move. Sherlock just lied there; still against the warmth of the sand. He felt a horrible weight being pressed down on his body, crushing him slowly. His body screamed for air, but there was none to be taken in. He was trapped. He wanted to call for John, but he knew it was no use. His friend was probably just as deep beneath the sand as he was. No, there was no calling for John this time. There was no help coming for them. They were going to die here, buried under the sand where no one will ever find them. He forced his eyes shut, trying to keep himself calm.

"Sherlock." Sherlock's eyes opened as the sickly call shouted for him. Hope lifted his dying body. Maybe John was closer than he thought. Maybe his friend was not yet dead. He opened his mouth to call out, but ended up coughing up sand that had threatened to come up his stinging throat.

"John," Sherlock choked, forcing his voice to call out to his lost friend. He then felt the soft tapping of fingers on his outstretched palm. Sherlock grabbed the hand and crawled slowly to where the rest of his friend lied.

"You…ok?" John panted, coughing as sand flew around them. He looked horrible. His eyes were growing dimmer and his lips sere beginning to turn a light shade of blue from the lack of oxygen. Sherlock nodded, unable to speak. His throat was raw from coughing. "Any…anytime now I guess," John choked, a sad expression falling over his face. Sherlock nodded, holding John's hand a little tighter as they lied in the sand. John was right. Oxygen was slowly leaving them. They probably won't be able to last another few minutes.

"S…s…sorry," Sherlock rasped, clutching his throat with his freehand as it burned like fire. He felt guilty for all of this. They were going to die because he had to go after Moriarty. If they would have stayed home they would be safe at home. John shook his head, squeezing Sherlock's hand back, causing the detective to look into his friend's eyes.

"Don't be, Sherlock, I definitely am not." Sherlock stared at his friend in confusion. John laughed sadly at his friend and sighed deeply. "Thanks for the adventures," John breathed, closing his eyes. Sherlock smiled at his friend, pulling himself closer so he would be sure that he would not lose his best friend again.

"No, thank you," Sherlock's voice called to his sleeping friend as he lied next to him. Sherlock's head fell against the warm sand, his body giving in at last. He closed his blue eyes, letting himself run away to his mind palace. It was beautiful there. there were corridors running all over and each one lead to a special room. there was one that Sherlock wanted to visit one last time for sure though. Running through the long corridors he came to a door; a door he would forever miss. The symbols 221B were marking the wooden door. Sherlock smiled at it and twirled the doorknob. This is where he wanted to be in his last moments. He wanted to be home with his friends.

* * *

All was silent after that. The wind of the sand storm was the only thing that broke the silence. Deep in the sand lied two friends; their hands entwined, never to be broken apart. that's friendship, though. Nothing, not even death can separate it. The two slept soundly in the warm sand together, falling deeper into the dreams that they would never wake from.


	9. Chapter 8

**Lestrade's POV**

* * *

Lestrade drove up to the scene. His face was grim and contorted with worry. Mycroft had sent him here right after Anthea got the message on Sherlock and John. The storm had ended, but that that wasn't the problem at the moment. The problem was that Sherlock and John were buried underneath the hot sand. He quickly got out of his car and jogged over to a tent where Agent Vermont was texting.

"Well, how's the search?" Lestrade asked, wiping his already sweaty hair out of his eyes. Vermont looked up at him, pocketing his phone.

"Bad." Lestrade's face fell instantly. Vermont turned his gaze out into the open sand, where hundreds of Mycroft's men searched carefully. "The storm is interfering with our gear," Vermont stated. "We can't get any signals in this place." Lestrade lowered his head, taking in deep breaths. This couldn't end like this. There was so much life left in his two friends. They couldn't just die out here. Lestrade walked out from under the cool shade of the tent and into the sweltering heat of the desert with Agent Vermont. "We've been searching the area since the sand storm ended, but so far, everything is going wrong. We are having a hell of a time finding life signs with our equipment since the storm," Vermont rattled into his phone to Mycroft. He sounded nervous talking to the older Holmes. Well, who wouldn't be? One wrong word and he could make you disappear forever and no one would ask questions. Lestrade frowned at the phone suddenly. Why wasn't Mycroft here? It was his brother who was missing. Shouldn't he be desperately digging through the sand in search for his only sibling? He shook his head. Then again, Mycroft was helping. He had sent an entire squad out with high technical computers. Who else would send out hundreds of people with computers that cost more than any hunk of gold just to save their own brother?

"Vermont?" Lestrade said, stopping suddenly. The agent stopped, hesitantly pulling the phone from his ear. "How long until the computers start working?" Vermont looked down at his phone, thinking silently to himself and then shot back up to Lestrade.

"A couple of hours, Sir, the storm is still affecting them, but it's moving a little faster than before." Lestrade managed a smile at the Agent and turned away, walking farther into the open desert. This was not good. Every second reduced his friends' chances by more than what Lestrade wished. A couple of hours was just what death was probably hoping for. There is no way someone can keep from breathing for hours. It's just not possible. Yes, there are times Sherlock doesn't breathe just because it's boring, but he never holds it past an hour. Lestrade took a sip of water from his water bottle as he walked through the sand, hoping for maybe some sign that would help him find them. He thought back to when Moriarty had paid them a little visit. He had been so calm, so fearless. Lestrade gritted his teeth. He hated Moriarty. What kind of man sends people out in a desert just to play a game? It's sickening. Mycroft seemed to be at Moriarty's mercy. He didn't even call his people to come in and get him to the nearest prison. What was that all about? A man like that should be in jail! Lestrade didn't understand what was going on between Moriarty and the Holmes brothers, but he had the feeling he didn't want to know. Moriarty kept trying to get Mycroft to tell him something. It had to be about their past. He had wanted to try to get Mycroft to spit out the answer, but he knew better than to medal into the lives of the Holmes brothers. He's tried meddling into Sherlock's past when they first met and he didn't find anything special. In fact, he didn't really find anything at all. There were just the usual things; birth date, status. There was nothing personal, though. It was like all the records had been wiped.

Lestrade sighed deeply. What does it all matter? His two closest friends in the world were missing; buried alive. Lestrade clenched and unclenched his fists as emotions bubbled inside of him. He was angry; and at Moriarty for sending Sherlock and John out here. If it wasn't for him they would probably all be back at the Yard listening to Anderson and Donavan try to aggravate Sherlock while they are on some crazy case. He kicked the sand in anger. What was he going to do?! Lestrade rested his head in his hand, staring at the ground. His eyes scanned over the sand that had swallowed his best friends. Oh, how he hated it. The sand just sat there, laughing at him and the others that searched it. It was taunting him.

"_Dead; they're both dead," _the sand hissed at him. Lestrade covered his ears.

"Shut up," he growled at it, keeping his voice low. He didn't want people staring at him like he was mad.

"_They're dead, Lestrade! They suffer slowly as my sand forces its way down their parched throats and crush their bodies. They scream, but no one hears. They die alone in my unforgiving caverns. DEAD! They are dead!"_

"SHUT UP!" Lestrade screamed. Again, he kicked another clump of sand up into the air. People stopped to stare at him, but he didn't care. He clutched his head, slumping over slightly, trying to calm himself. What was happening to him? Why was this happening to him? Lestrade stared into the sand, waiting for it to answer the question for him.

That's when he saw it. There was something lying under the sand. Lestrade kicked at it with his shoe, searching through the sand. He must be really losing it now. Lestrade kept kicking at the sand anyway, though. Blue fabric poked out of the sand as he smacked the sand away from the area. Lestrade's heart jumped in his chest suddenly. Diving into the sand, he began digging. Deeper and deeper he dug, searching for something; anything. Finally, he was seeing the dark coat he had missed so much and then a hand that was entwined with another.

"Oh thank god!" Lestrade screamed, digging frantically. His heart leapt with excitement as he dug up his two friends. He had found them. Everything was going to be just fine. Agent Vermont, who was still talking to the elder Holmes on his mobile noticed Lestrade's frantic digging and was at his side in seconds, helping him.

"We found them!" Vermont shouted at the others, who were automatically bringing over medical supplies. Sherlock was the first to be lifted out of the sand. His body was motionless and limb. John was the same when they lifted him up next. Their hands were entwined tightly together Lestrade noticed instantly. Lestrade smirked. One is never without the other. Death couldn't even accomplish separating the two.

"Sherlock, John?" Lestrade called, shaking their bodies lightly. They didn't move. They just sat there in the sand with blue lips and pale lifeless faces. Fear instantly struck Lestrade in the heart. His hands fled to their wrists, checking for a pulse. There was nothing. They weren't moving. Lestrade felt his heart snap. "No," He mouthed, covering his mouth. "Please, not them. Not yet," Lestrade gasped, his body trembling. Agent Vermont laid the two flat on their backs and pushed down on their chest, trying to get the two to breath. They had been without air for way too long and the sand hadn't been helping them either. Lestrade tried to stay calm as he stroked back Sherlock's wild curls and held John's limb hand. He was scared, no, he was terrified. He couldn't picture a life without them. It just didn't seem possible. Everything was moving in slow motion as time ticked by. Lestrade closed his eyes as hot tears began to sting his eyes. They were…they were…

* * *

**Hi guys! i'd like to thank those of you who informed me on a little mistake with using "Lied" over "lay" i'll make sure to watch out for that more carefully. If any of you do find a mistake that i make constantly feel free to let me know. the only way i can get better at my writing is when i learn from my mistakes. Anywho...back to the chapter. I had been arguing with myself all night on how i should end this chapter and decided on this. i'm hoping it was the smart way to go. i think it is. Leaves you guys with some suspense! Somthing to bite your nails at. **


	10. Chapter 9

They were…they were…

Rough coughing interrupted Lesrade's trail of thoughts, causing him to open his watery eyes. Both John and Sherlock were gasping in breaths of fresh air, their eyes flying open. Lestrade sighed in relief and pushed Sherlock onto his side as he spat up dark sand. Happy tears were falling down from his eyes, slipping down his chin onto the sand. He looked over the detective as he slowly began to recover. Color slowly began to creep back into the detective's face and the blue began to disappear from his lips.

"John?" Sherlock rasped, breathing heavily as he spat up the last of the sand. His eyes speed around, searching for his friend.

"I'm here," John croaked, holding a hand out to Sherlock. Vermont let go of the good doctor and let him crawl to Sherlock's side. Sherlock took his friends hand, entwining his hands with John's like before. Smiling at John with a sickly smile, Sherlock mentaly asked if he was alright. John nodded and the two slouched as relief took hold of their tired bodies, glad that they had both made it out. Lestrade punched them both in the shoulder, glaring at them both.

"You two are going to be the death of me," Lestrade sighed, rubbing the tears from his eyes.

"Yeah, well your life would be so dull without us," Sherlock croaked. Lestrade stared at him, noticing the sympathetic smile that was now resting on Sherlock's face. Lestrade's body un-tensed and he nodded in agreement.

"True, I'd be more than dull though. I'd be shattered if one of you…died," Lestrade stated, staring at the both of them. There was a long heavy silence for a few moments until Agent Vermont tried to help Sherlock to his feet. A sharp hiss left through Sherlock's clenched teeth and the detective slumped back into the sand. Lestrade pulled himself to Sherlock's side, unbuttoning the detective's shirt to find his pale skin completely blotched with ugly bruises and red scrapes. Lestrade sucked in a breath.

"What the hell-"

"I flew out of a spinning vehicle," Sherlock informed him, pulling his arm, which was wrapped in his blue scarf closer to him. Lestrade sucked in a breath, reaching out to take Sherlock's arm. Sherlock flinched at the gesture, but let the DI unravel the scarf and pull up the sleeve. Lestrade's gut tightened at the sight of Sherlock's arm. It was badly bruised and swelled. He knew for a fact that it had to be broken.

"Do you know how lucky you are that this wasn't your neck?" Lestrade stated, glancing into Sherlock's blue eyes. Sherlock wrinkled his nose and nodded in John's direction.

"He's the one with the concussion. Why don't you baby him?" the detective spat. Lestrade shook his head and smiled smugly at his friend.

"John at least isn't the one who keeps running off on his own to chase after criminals," Lestrade pointed out to him. "How many times must I tell you to quit running off on your own before you actually listen?"

"Well, just until solving cases begins to bore me, but the odds of that happening are slim so don't worry you'll have me for a while, but sadly not long enough to teach your team common sense." Lestrade let out a laugh.

"Oh, Sherlock, what would I do without you?" Lestrade turned back to Agent Vermont, who was helping a paramedic check over John.

"Better get them back home before they get into any more trouble." The agent nodded, helping Lestrade pull the blogger detectives to their feet and toward the helicopter Mycroft had sent them. Suddenly, Sherlock and John both froze, glancing at each other in fear as something came to mind. "Moriarty-"Lestrade cut the both of them off before they could finish as he helped carry them through the sand.

"We know. He had stopped by while you two were suffocating under layers of sand," Lestrade stated. Sherlock's body tensed slightly and his hand brushed the sweaty curls out of his face. He looked way too stressed, which for Sherlock is probably not a good sign.

"Where is he now? Sherlock asked.

* * *

**They're alive! YAY! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. there might be around four more, depending on if i make any changes or stuff like that so it's not for sure yet. Let me know what you think! thanks for reading!**


	11. Chapter 10

The helicopter hummed as it flew above the never ending desert on its way to take the blogger detectives safely back home. Sherlock and John had been given water and cool packs to keep cool and hydrated on their long journey home and the paramedics looked over their wounds, checking for anything fatal. Lestrade had stayed with them for a few hours, fussing over them like a mother hen before Sherlock threatened to toss him out the window if he asked them one more time if they needed anything. Reluctantly, Lestrade finally decided to leave them alone so they could rest. Now they only had to rest and relax, which for them seemed like a first. They didn't complain, though. It had been a long couple of days in that dreadful desert and rest seemed like the greatest thing ever. Sherlock had even looked at peace as silence (except for the hum of the copter) completely took over. John had let his mind drift away to back when they were stuck with Moriarty. He still had so many questions. He stared over at Sherlock's direction; his curiosity nagging at the back of his mind.

"Sherlock?" Sherlock glanced at him in the corner of his eye, refusing to pull his full attention from the window. John opened his mouth to ask Sherlock the question that had been eating him up. He wanted to understand what was happening. He didn't understand what was so grand about learning Sherlock's secret. He wanted to know what the big deal was. "It looks like poor Mycroft is still stuck with us. I bet he'll have his surveillance on us notched up, though," John stated, deciding that maybe he really didn't want to know about Sherlock's past. He likes Sherlock for who he is now. He doesn't want anything from Sherlock's past to ruin the way he thought of his best friend. A small smile curled over Sherlock's face.

"If he does he's going to find his computers completely coated in viruses," Sherlock threatened. "We're not children. We can take care of ourselves." John laughed, lifting his water bottle to his lips and taking a quick sip.

"Yeah, sure, whatever you say, Sherlock," John stated. "Good luck with making him believe that one. Look how much trouble we got in with Moriarty!" Sherlock flinched at the mention of the madman's name and John regretted bringing up the man immediately. The detective grew silent and his gaze drifted. Sherlock's eyes stared through the window, looking down at the red sand that sat bellow them. His fingers pressed together in their usual stance under his chin as he drifted. He looked as if he was trying to come up with some kind of decision or idea. It was like he was pondering over the effects of something over and over in his head. This wasn't something new to see when sitting with Sherlock Holmes, but there was a faint look of worry in Sherlock's blue eyes that sent shivers up John's skin.

"John?" Sherlock mumbled finally, keeping his eyes out the window, turned away from his best friend. John looked at him rubbing, his heavy eyes; those endless days of battling through the desert were starting to catch up on him.

"Hmmm?" John answered, stifling a yawn.

"Moriarty," Sherlock began; his voice cold as he mentioned the name of the madman. "He's planning something…something big…bigger than what any of us could ever be prepared for," Sherlock slurred. John bit his lip nervously as he listened to Sherlock stutter. His eyes scanned over his friend, noticing that something was troubling his flat mate greatly. Sherlock looked all wrong. His hand had a slight tremor and his mask was lifted slightly. John could catch several emotions pass through Sherlock's blue eyes; fear, hate, and several others John never thought that he would live to see on Sherlock Holmes's face. John watched as Sherlock took in a deep breath and turned his gaze to John's, allowing their eyes to meet. "I need to know if you will trust me; trust me no matter what happens." Sherlock stated, his eyes staring deep into John's. John's heart thudded in his chest. He felt ill. Why would Sherlock need to ask for John to trust him? Didn't he know that John already did? Day to day John went on crazy adventures, trusting that everything would turn out alright no matter what. Why was Sherlock doubting that now? What was coming for them? Had he missed something that Moriarty had said back in the desert that Sherlock had picked up on right away? Worry was bubbling higher in John's body now. If Sherlock was worried then it had to be bad. "John?" John flinched, realizing his friend was still waiting for him to answer. John stared at Sherlock, noting the puppy eyes Sherlock was giving him. John let out a long sighed and rested a reassuring hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock glanced at the hand resting on the shoulder of his good arm and then back at his friend, smiling gratefully. He clearly knew John's answer, but John still felt that it needed to be said. John felt a small smile curve over his lips as he stated truthfully,

"Sherlock, I believe in you and always will. Not even Moriarty could change my mind about that."

* * *

**So there you have it. They are both safe…for now. It isn't over for this little story just yet, though. There are a few secrets that need to be revealed yet. ;) **


	12. Chapter 11

It was a cold morning in London once again and Mycroft Holmes was staring through a window, watching as his men interrogated the greatest criminal mind in the world. They had caught him while they were fallowing another criminal a few days ago. He didn't put up a fight. He just stood there and watched as they surrounded him.

Mycroft walked into the room once his henchmen were finished and found Moriarty with a bloody face from his beating after refusing to cooperate. Mycroft had hoped that torture would have opened him up, but Moriarty made it clear that there was only one way to get him to open up.

"Where's your brother?" Moriarty asked, smiling at the elder Holmes. Mycroft didn't answer. He had been alerted that his brother and Dr. Watson had just broken into Baskerville with his card again. It had been several months since the whole desert fiasco and everyone was doing well. Moriarty sat in the chair as Mycroft sat in the opposite, fiddling with his umbrella.

"What do you want?" Mycroft asked.

"You already know," Moriarty cooed, smiling evilly. Mycroft's face was about to fall, but he caught himself before the emotions danced out.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Oh, no reason really…just want to get to know Sherlock better. As the people say…know your enemy," Moriarty stated in an evilly wicked way. "Come now…tell me…it's not like I'm going to say anything." Mycroft looked at him with narrowed eyes.

"Our parents-"

"Nope, I'm afraid I have to stop you there," Moriarty interrupted. Mycroft stared at him with confusion. Moriarty smiled at him, tilting his head playfully. "When I first met you and Sherlock I noticed the neglect and suffering strait off. You two never mention your parents, making everyone guess that mummy and daddy weren't the parents every little child dreams for. I see the truth though; the _secret_. It's far more than that. If it was the parents why would you two be so twisted near each other?"

"You seem to have this all figured out. Why even bother asking?" Mycroft asked, gripping the handle of his umbrella until his knuckles turn white.

"Well, wouldn't want to send out pathetic little rumors; would I?"

"I don't have to tell you anything."

"Then the key code stays safely hidden in here," Moriarty stated, tapping his head. Mycroft sighed deeply, averting his eyes from the criminal. What could he do? He needed that key code, but it wasn't a story for him to discuss. It was Sherlock's, but it was technically his too. What harm could it do? The criminal was under their surveillance. It's not like he could do anything to Sherlock anyway using this information; right?

"Our past was never really as bad as what most people guess when they first meet us. Everything had been so wonderful until our dreams were turned into nightmares," Mycroft stuttered as the memories came forth. Moriarty stayed still, watching Mycroft for any lies with his dark eyes. "I was eighteen when they…when they…" Mycroft swore at himself for being so emotional. It had been years. Why should he still be affected like this? "I took care of him after the…incident. I wasn't the best of guardians though. I was angry; always angry." Mycroft swallowed. He was finding it hard to keep talking now. All those horrible memories he had locked away were now cornering him. Moriarty was leaning forward as he listened to the story; entreated by the tale.

"What happened?"


	13. Chapter 12

**Warning: Abuse**

* * *

Mycroft walked into his family home; a bottle of whiskey grasped tightly in his hands. He was a mess. Hair was sticking up like he had been sleeping and his eyes were bloodshot. He had a good reason though for acting this way, though. It was the anniversary of his parents' death once again. They had been away for a business trip in the Americas during a bombing a couple years back. There had been nothing left of them. It probably wouldn't have affected him as bad if he hadn't heard their blood curdling screams as they died. They had called him to check up on him and his brother after a month of being gone. Sherlock had been sleeping on the couch and Mycroft had been discussing school and work to his loving parents. That's when it happened. He heard a loud thud and shattering glass through the phone, which were followed by horrible screams. He had called out to them but soon the phone was dead and so were his parents. Now Mycroft just had his little brother. It wouldn't have been too bad just living with his younger brother, but Sherlock got all the features of his parents unlike Mycroft, who looked more like their grandfather. Sherlock got their mother's long curly hair and gorgeous eyes. He got his bone structure and pale complexion from their father. It was like looking at a photograph. Sherlock was his parents all in one and that's what sickened Mycroft. Every time he looked at his little brother he was forced to see his dead parents. Hell wasn't some burning underground world with a man holding a pitchfork it was his little brother.

Mycroft took another gulp of whiskey and stumbled up the stairway to his parents' room. It was the usual routine. He would lie in their bed and cry himself to sleep. The next morning he would get up, regain his dignity, and run off to work. This time it wasn't going to be one of those cases, though. The door was open halfway to the master bedroom. This wasn't odd, but it also wasn't normal. Mycroft pushed the door open gently to see Sherlock sitting next to their father's violin and a small picture with all four of them happy and together. The only problem was that there was a crack running down the picture, splitting Sherlock and Mycroft from their parents. Sherlock's wet eyes dragged up to meet his.

"I'm…I'm sorry, brother…I didn't mean to break it-"All Mycroft could see was red. His brother had _destroyed_ it. Their only photo of them all together was gone. Before he could think twice he was suddenly chasing after his younger brother. Sherlock was fast, but not fast enough. Mycroft flung out his hands, snatching Sherlock's wrist. The boy turned to look up at him with terror sketched over his eyes, but it was washed away once Mycroft's fist collided with the young boy's cheek. Sherlock collapsed to the floor, weeping in pain as he clutched his burning face. Mycroft pulled out a handkerchief, cleaning the blood from his hand.

"You little burden!" Mycroft snarled, kicking his brother. Sherlock pulled himself into a ball, crying silently to himself. "All you ever do is make my life miserable!" Mycroft hit the boy again. Sherlock flipped over on his back, blood spilling from the cut on his cheek and lip.

"Brother-" Mycroft grabbed Sherlock by the neck and held him up over the stairway.

"Shut it! I hate you! You were always a burden to us! I bet mum and dad are glad they don't have to listen to your stupid deductions anymore!" Mycroft screamed, clutching the boy's neck tighter. Sherlock was in absolute terror now and was crying and screaming for his brother to stop. Mycroft squeezed tighter as Sherlock tried to kick him and dig his nails into his hand. Mycroft gritted his teeth together. Just one throw; that's all he needed to do to be rid of this little pest. One throw and all his burdens will be gone.

"Please, MYCROFT!"

* * *

The red left Mycroft's eyes. He looked around in a daze. What had he been doing? Everything was a blur. He glanced at the broken bottle on the floor and groaned. He really had to stop drinking. All it did was mess with his head.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft called, wondering where his little brother had run off to now. His eyes looked down the staircase to see a lump laying on the last step. Red liquid was pooling out from the body. Mycroft's heart stopped and his eyes looked down at his hands. Blood was covering them from where he had hit his brother and from tiny scratches left by nails. Mycroft's eyes fled back to where the lump laid. No, not a lump...it was…it was Sherlock!

"SHERLOCK?!" Mycroft screamed, dashing down to his brother's side. He lifted the skinny weightless child in his arms. Sherlock's breathing was hitched and dark bruises ringed his neck. Tears flooded Mycroft's eyes. What had he done? Sherlock was all he had left. Mycroft shook his brother, screaming at him to wake up, but the boy just laid there; silent. The elder Holmes buried his face in his little brothers chest, weeping for his brother to open his eyes.


	14. Chapter 13

**Warnin****g: Reference to abuse**

* * *

Later, Mycroft sat in the hospital. The police sat next to him in the waiting room, asking him what had happened, but he simply stated his brother had been playing and fell down the stairs. He couldn't tell the truth. What would happen then? They would split him and Sherlock up.

"Do you have any relatives we could speak to?" the officer asked. Mycroft wiped his eyes, taking in a shaky breath before shaking his head.

"No." The officer frowned at him, looking rather suspicious. "My brother and I have been orphans for several years now." Mycroft informed them. The officer's face fell and a sympathetic look fell over his face.

"I'm sorry; how about we discuss this another time. It looks like the doctor his waiting to speak with you anyway," stated the officer. Mycroft's eyes drifted to the grim looking doctor and then to the officers again.

"Yes, thank you, Officer," Mycroft stated before quickly walking away from them. What a bunch of idiots. Officers of the law should be able to tell when someone is lying about hurting their own flesh and blood. He sighed to himself in relief. He would have to file his lie away for later. He can't let anything about this secret slip or both he and Sherlock will be separated forever and who knows how it may affect their lives.

"Mycroft Holmes?" the doctor asked as Mycroft approached him. Mycroft nodded, looking over the doctor, deducing the past hours off of him. He clearly has had a long night trying to save his brother.

"Yes, that's me, Sir. Is my brother all right?" The doctor nodded, taking in a long breath.

"He was very lucky. He's broken an arm, wrist, ribs, and a few more bones, but he should be alright now." Relief fluttered through Mycroft's body. His little brother was alright. He was alive.

"May I visit him?" Mycroft asked, adding a few tears to strengthen his hold on the sympathetic doctor. The doctor looked at him sadly and nodded, leading him down the hall.

When he entered the room he found Sherlock lying in a white bed, covered in bandages. The boy didn't look at his brother. His face was whiter and his lips were cracked in small cuts. Mycroft strolled over to his bedside, but Sherlock only stared out the window with cold emotionless eyes.

"Sherlock, I'm…I'm so…so sorry." Sherlock was still. Mycroft's eyes stared at his younger brother, pleading for forgiveness. "You have to believe me when I say I didn't mean it. I was drunk and angry about that stupid picture," Mycroft explained. There was still nothing from his brother. The boy just sat there, uncaring. This was starting to scare Mycroft. Why wasn't Sherlock saying anything? Why isn't he crying or shouting? What's wrong with him? "Sherlock…I…oh god…" Mycroft covered his face, feeling tears burn down his cheeks. "I'm so…so sorry…please…just…I'm sorry." Mycroft looked up; hoping to see his kid brother staring back at him with those soft blue eyes, but his brother still stared into the distance with a mask plastered on his face. "Sherlock?" Nothing; just stillness. "Sherlock?!" Mycroft screamed louder. Sherlock had no reaction toward his brother's cries. He just sat there. He refused to speak to his older brother. Mycroft turned to the doctor, who had now walked into the room to check Sherlock's vitals. "Why won't he speak to me?" he asked. The doctor only said that it was just shock, but Mycroft had a horrible feeling that it was worse than that.

* * *

Mycroft stayed with his brother all week until the doctors finally forced him away. He had gone back home only to find that the carpet was still soaked in blood. The picture was still lying on the floor, but this time it had another crack running through it. This time it was running between him and Sherlock. Mycroft lifted the picture and stared at his now shattered family. He was a fool. How could he have hurt Sherlock over a simple picture? The frame was the only thing broken. The picture was fine. He lifted himself from the floor of the room and peaked out the doorway, staring at the stairs that almost brought Sherlock to his doom. Mycroftshivered suddenly. He could have sworn he heard his little brother's screams as he stood there in the dim light.

"_Please, MYCROFT!"_ Mycroft sucked in a breath as the voice bounced off the walls. No, he couldn't stay here. Not without Sherlock. He had to go back to Sherlock. He had to stay by his baby brother's side.

* * *

Mycroft burst into the hospital a few hours later, ignoring the shouting nurses from behind. All he wanted to do was see Sherlock. His hand grabbed for the door, yanking it open only to find an empty bed.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft called, peaking into the bathroom, which was empty. Mycroft peaked around the room, searching for any clues, but it was all in vain. His little brother was nowhere in sight. Worry and panic bubbled in him like a soda bottle. He ran to the doctors, demanding for his location, but they only stared at him dumfounded, unknowing of the missing patient. That only made Mycroft's heart gallop faster. His baby brother was lost, alone, and horribly injured. Mycroft rocketed out of the hospital screaming out his brother's name, hoping that he would answer him. Dashing down the streets he asked for people to help find him and to keep their eyes open. Mycroft even grabbed his phone and called a police squad to go out for him, but it was almost a full year and a half before he found his brother, running with the homeless.


	15. Chapter 14

**Warning: Reference to abuse and drug use**

* * *

He had been sitting in the park when he saw a boy with curly hair sitting under a tree, trying to keep warm in the cold night. Mycroft had recognized those blue eyes right away and charged at his brother, hugging him tight. A year; a year and a half he has waited to see those beautiful blue eyes again and now that wish has come true. Sherlock jumped; startled by the attack, but he was even more startled when he saw who was hugging him. Sherlock's eyes turned dark and he pushed his brother away from him, snarling like an animal. Mycroft stared at him, taking in every inch of his little brother. Sherlock was no longer the cute little child Mycroft once knew. The boy was in his teens now and had changed greatly over the year. He had grown taller and his cheekbones were as sharp as knives (much like their father's). Sherlock was thinner than what he had been a year ago; his ribs were practically sticking out! His brother's eyes were the only things that didn't change. They were still full of hatred for his older brother.

"Sherlock-"

"Leave me alone, _brother_," Sherlock hissed. Mycroft flinched. Sherlock's voice was so low and angry it sent shivers down his spine.

"Sherlock…I'm…I'm so sorry…I wish-"

"Wish what? Wish the burden of your life was dead? Well, I am. I'm no longer you're little brother. That Sherlock Holmes died that night when you showed you're true feelings for him," Sherlock stated, getting up from where he had been sitting. Mycroft's heart clenched.

"I…I didn't mean it, Sherlock," Mycroft informed him, holding his hands out to his brother. Sherlock glowered at him; clearly not amused that his brother refused to leave him alone.

"Caring _isn't_ an advantage, Mycroft," Sherlock hissed. Mycroft's heart fell.

"Sherlock, caring _is_ an advantage! You're my brother and I love you-"

"_LOVE_ ME?!" Sherlock shouted, laughing at the words. His cold blue eyes stabbed into Mycroft, making him feel ill. Had he really created _this_? Where was his sweet little brother who smiled and laughed? "You clearly told me I was nothing but a burden!" Mycroft stared at his brother; anger burning his face. He had not been waiting a whole year and a half just to be thrown in the trash by his baby brother. He had asked for forgiveness. What was so hard with forgiving him?

"Why can't you just forgive me, Sherlock?! Can't you see how worried I've been? What's wrong with you?! What would mummy and father think of you?!" Mycroft shut his mouth. He had gone too far. Sherlock's eyes turned darker, but the blue seemed to glow dangerously in the night.

"Do you know what it's like to find out that the last person you loved hated you?" Sherlock hissed. "Hated you so much that they put you through unbearable pain?" Sherlock lifted his coat sleeve, showing Mycroft that the pale skin was completely speckled in needle marks. Mycroft's eyes widened in horror. "LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE TO ME!" Sherlock screamed; tears were starting to build up in his eyes. "I can't sleep without seeing that night; seeing myself almost murdered from the one person I thought I loved!" Sherlock sobbed, his body quivering from the memory. "I'm so tired, Mycroft, I…I can't take it…" The boy broke down fully, wailing in fear and sadness. Mycroft's heart clenched as he watched his younger brother shiver. He wanted to reach out to him like he had before this whole incident. He wanted to hug him and tell him everything would be ok, but he was just too in shock with what he was seeing and hearing.

"What are you taking?" Mycroft asked; his shaky voice almost a whisper. Sherlock stiffened and his eyes darkened, angry that his brother didn't care enough to comfort him. He didn't snap at Mycroft, though. Sherlock just rolled down his sleeve and shrugged.

"Morphine mostly thanks to that hospital you stuck me in, but cocaine has become a new favorite of mine along with nicotine," Sherlock stated simply, taking out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and popping one into his mouth, clearing his tear raw eyes as he did so. Mycroft's mouth dropped as his brother lit the cigarette and breathed in the nasty smoke. What has he done?!

"Sherlock, I can't let you ruin your life! You are coming home with me!" Mycroft screamed, grabbing Sherlock by the wrist. A scream left Sherlock's mouth, causing Mycroft to let go. He stared at his brother, who held his wrist, shaking with fear. Then he realized that Sherlock never heeled from that night so long ago. He was still haunted by what Mycroft had done to him. "I'm sorry." Sherlock shook his head, pulling his coat closer to himself.

"I'm leaving, Mycroft," Sherlock stated, turning on his heels. Mycroft stepped in front of him.

"Please, Sherlock, let me help," Mycroft pleaded. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his brother.

"Help? Mycroft, I'd rather die," Sherlock spat. Mycroft's heart snapped, he didn't even attempt chasing after his little brother as he ran into the darkness. Sherlock's words rang through his ears. This was what he made him. He had turned the last he had left of his family into nothing but a cold-hearted freak.


	16. Chapter 15

**Present Day-**

* * *

"So then what happened?" Moriarty asked, tapping his fingers against the table that separated him and Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft ran a hand through his hair, messing up the usually well-kept hair.

"I kept a watchful eye on my brother after that through cameras surrounding London. One day I saw him poking around a crime scene and after that he met Lestrade and now his life seems to be finally piecing together. Especially now that he has-"Mycroft, shut his mouth, noticing Moriarty's smile. "I don't know what happened to us then; why I hurt him, but he's happy with his new family now," Mycroft sighed. Moriarty shrugged.

"It's like a diamond," Moriarty stated simply. "You have this beautiful and wonderful piece of splendor, where it seems like nothing can destroy it, but all it takes is one tiny mistake and it becomes ugly." The elder Holmes took in Moriarty's words. His mistake wasn't tiny, though. A small mistake can be fixed. One as large as Sherlock's and Mycroft's can not be. Sighing deeply Mycroft lowered his head, letting the memories run around his head, cackling like witches.

"It appears so," Mycroft stated sadly. Moriarty crossed his legs, a smile curving over his face; he was surprised Mycroft had opened up so easily. On the other hand, even Mycroft Holmes can't keep everything locked away inside. Keeping any secret as big as that for so long could drive anyone mad. Moriarty let an evil grin play across his lips and then looked around the room, staring at the name written all over the walls and mirror; Sherlock. He had all he needed now.

"Well, looks like it's my turn," Moriarty hummed, staring away from his writing. Mycroft straitened in his chair, staring at the consulting criminal.

"Yes, but I need to know first," Mycroft whispered silently. "Why did you really want to know about Sherlock's secret?" Moriarty's eyes brightened and a little giggle left his mouth.

"Oh, you'll see. It's just a _leap_ away."

* * *

**Sherlock's and Mycroft's secret revealed! I wanted to do the whole past thing different than what everyone else had. Instead of making the parents the whole problem it was all Mycroft and Sherlock in the end. They snapped. Thanks for reading guys!**


	17. Chapter 16

"_This phone call it's my note. That's what people do don't they…leave a note?"_

"_Leave a note when?"_

"_Goodbye, John."_

* * *

Lestrade sat at his desk; head in his hands as he stared down at _the_ file. He never thought that it would come to this. He never believed that he would be chasing down one of his closest friends. He hated Sherlock for running. Why didn't he just let them arrest him? He could have tried to explain and clear his name. It would have been better than dodging the police and becoming a fugitive. John was in on this too now. He had run off with Sherlock. Sherlock had pulled John down under with him. That stupid idiot was throwing all of them in a heap of trouble.

_Ring!_

Lestrade flinched at the loud sound of his phone. Glancing at the phone that sat on his desk he wondered if it was really that important. He should be focusing on finding Sherlock. The phone rang again, annoying Lestrade to the point he wanted to toss it in the wall. He let out a dramatic sigh and lifted the phone to his ear.

"Lestrade," he stated into the phone.

"Lestrade, It's…it's…Molly." Lestrade's gut suddenly tightened. Molly never called him before and why is her voice quivering like that?

"What's wrong?" There was silence through the other end of the phone until suddenly Molly's voice reappeared once again through the other end.

"It's…it's…Oh god…" He could hear her sniffling in the background now. Something was really wrong. "It's…Sher…Sherlock…" Lestrade's face paled.

"Molly, what's wrong? What's happened?" Lestrade found himself shouting into the phone. He heard a sob from the phone again and then Molly's voice afterward.

"I'm at the…the morgue…please…please come." With that said the phone went dead, leaving Lestrade staring down at the phone in his shaking hands. The morgue?

"Donavan, Anderson!" Lestrade shouted, jumping to his feet. The two looked through the doorway at the DI.

"Yes, Sir?" they asked in unison.

"We found him."

* * *

Lestrade strolled through the halls with Donavan and Anderson at his side. His heart was pounding the entire time. He didn't understand what was happening. He wanted to understand, but he just couldn't. Why was Molly so upset?

"Here it is!" Donavan shouted, pointing at the doorway to the morgue. Lestrade pushed the door open, instantly freezing in place where he stood. Donavan and Anderson frowned at them, but when their eyes fell on what…_who_ he was staring at silence filled the room and all that could be heard was the thundering beat of Lestrade's heart, falling into his stomach. In the dimly lit room Molly stood by a table, staring with wet eyes at a dark lump that lied on it. John was standing next to the table, his fingers clutching something tightly. His eyes were faraway and his body was trembling. Lestrade didn't realize that he had now gone into a full sprint to see who was lying there on the cold table, but soon after he wished he hadn't. Now he stood there; staring into the dead eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade croaked, staring at the body. Blood was covering the detective's cold pale skin. His hair was completely soaked in blood, along with his clothes. Lestrade's eyes lifted to a weeping Molly. "What…what…" Lestrade's voice was trembling and tears threatened his eyes. He looked over to John, but the blogger detective didn't look at him. He only stood by Sherlock's side; his fingers entwined with Sherlock's limp hand. His eyes were distant as they stared at his friend. Shock, Lestrade realized.

"Jumped," John finally stated, looking up at Lestrade with the saddest eyes Lestrade has ever seen. Lestrade's face contorted in alarm.

"Why-"

"My god!" Donavan gasped, stepping a little closer with Anderson to get a better look. John's face suddenly grew dark and his head snapped in their direction with a horrible sneer painted over his face.

"Not how you expected it to be?" John hissed. Donavan stared up at him in confusion.

"What?" she gasped, pulling her gaze from the crushed body.

"When we first met-"John took a deep breath; tears were sliding down his face steadily. "You…you said that one day we'd be standing around a body…" Donavan's face paled snow white and her body trembled suddenly. A cruel smile oozed onto John's face. "…and that Sherlock Holmes would be the one that put it there…you didn't expect it to be like this, though, did you?" John hissed. Donavan stepped back from John as he stared daggers into her.

"Fre-"

"Stop this!" Lestrade and everyone else in the room flinched at the outburst. "Don't you dare speak of him! It's your fault…it's…it's…you fell for Moriarty's trap and pulled him down under…and now he's…he's…" John slumped down onto the table, his head resting on Sherlock's still chest. His body shook as he cried for his friend. Lestrade kept staring into Sherlock's eyes. What has he done? Sher…he's dead; gone forever and it's all his fault! Lestrade covered his mouth, forcing back a sob. Donavan reached out a hand to comfort him, but he pulled away from her.

"Just…go back to the Yard," Lestrade told her and Anderson in a soft whisper.

"But, Lestrade-"

"Leave now!" Lestrade barked at them; his voice booming throughout the morgue. Donavan bit her lip and dashed out of the room with Anderson following close behind. Lestrade turned his gaze back at Sherlock. His knees buckled from under him, sending him to his knees. Molly held out a hand to steady him, but he pulled away. He didn't deserve any help. Not after causing _this_. "Sherlock," Lestrade whispered softly, resting his hand on the bloody curls. An image of Sherlock blipped through his mind. Those long violinist fingers were gliding through the dark curls as he thought up the most brilliant deductions at a crime scene and those sharp stormy eyes were staring at him with so much life. Lestrade's lip quivered as the image evaporated into nothingness. That's all Sherlock was now; a memory. "Please…please…don't do this to us…please come…come back." He dropped his head onto the table, allowing the tears to finally fall from his stinging eyes.

"Lestrade?" Lestrade's head snapped up, looking at John, who was now staring at him with raw eyes. "He…he…told me…me that…that he was a…a…" John's entire body was trembling, making the DI feel only guiltier. Lestrade couldn't imagine what John must be going through now. John took in a shaky breath, trying to compose himself, but Lestrade could see that it wasn't working. The grief was just too much. "He told me he was a fake," John choked out, fiddling with Sherlock's limp fingers. Lestrade's heart fell deeper into his stomach. No, this can't be right. John wetted his lips, swallowing down another breath as he tried to force down the tears. "But…I…I…can't…I can't believe that…he was my…my best friend, Lestrade, how can I…" Lestrade forced himself to his feet and wrapped his arms around John as the man broke down again, sobbing uncontrollably into Lestrade's shoulder. Lestrade cried with him. They both cried; letting sorrow and despair fill the room. "What do I do now, Lestrade? What can I do? All I can hear is his last words to me. All I can see is his body crunching into the pavement," John sobbed. "He…he's dead…he's dead…" John repeated over and over again. Lestrade's eyes swerved over to Sherlock's broken form. He wanted to tell John the answer was to carry on. He wanted to tell him everything would be ok, but he couldn't. All he could do was think about Sherlock. He could just see the detectives face before he jumped and it scared him. He ordered himself to look into John's eyes and tell him that they just had to move on; that they just needed to be strong, but as he stared into the dead eyes of his close friend he knew that would only be a lie. Nothing was ever going to be the same again.

* * *

**I will be posting the very last chapter for this next weak. Thanks for reading!**


	18. The Finale

"_I'm sorry, Brother…" _

"_All lives end."_

"_I didn't mean to break it!"_

"_All hearts are broken." _

"_Brother-" _

"_Caring isn't an advantage, Sherlock." _

"_Please, Mycroft!"_

* * *

Mycroft stared at the closed casket as he stood in the funeral home. The casket was closed of course. The wounds were just too…too gruesome. Mycroft never expected this. He had always known that _Sherlock_ would die young, but never did he think it would be by his own hands. Mycroft wetted his lips, glancing at the crowd that was now gathered in the room. There were mostly just colleagues and clients who still believed in the dead man. Mycroft was surprised by the turn out. He had expected that only he and three others would show up. He looked over at where John was now sitting. The blogger was just staring at the coffin that held his best friend. He looked horrible. His eyes were strained from holding back tears and his posture was all wrong. Mycroft would have sat by his side, but he knew that he was not at good graces with the ex-army doctor. Mrs. Hudson was there for him, though so it wasn't all bad. She sat in a chair by John's side, weeping silently while John clutched her hand gently. Mycroft's eyes moved on around the room, noting that Anderson and Donavan got the message that they were not welcome here. Mycroft had letters sent out, informing that if they came anywhere near the funeral along with any reporters they would lose their jobs in less than a blink of an eye.

Before Mycroft could go back to staring at his brother's casket a weeping figure in the corner of the room caught his attention. Lestrade was as white as a ghost, but his eyes were red from crying. Mycroft frowned at the DI; questions running through his mind. Why was Lestrade sitting in the back? He was…_had_ been a close friend of Sherlock's. Why was he alone? Deciding to investigate Mycroft strolled over to the DI.

"Lestrade…I'm sorry-"

"Stop being nice to me, Mycroft!" Lestrade sobbed, tears flowing heavily down his cheeks Mycroft spoke to him. "It's my fault…I…I'm the one who…who…oh, god!" Lestrade's face fell into his hands and his body shook as he broke down into uncontrollable sobs. Mycroft bit at his lip, glancing around before gently setting his hand on Lestrade's shoulder as he sat next to him. He'll have to make this an exception to lift his mask today.

"You don't know that, Lestrade. We have no idea why he really jumped," Mycroft informed him, trying to help the weeping man.

"Why else would he have jumped, Mycroft? I betrayed him…I…I wasn't there for him when I should have," Lestrade cried heavily. Mycroft stared at the shattered DI. He was at a loss for words. There was nothing he could ever say that would break Lestrade from these thoughts; nothing except maybe Sherlock.

"You know what Sherlock would say if he saw us right now?" Lestrade slowly pulled his face from his hands, sniffling from crying so much. Lestrade nodded, a small smile curving over his face.

"He'd call us all a bunch of idiots and insult everyone in this room without stopping for a breath," Lestrade said, rubbing at his wet eyes. Mycroft let out a tight laugh and then stared at the coffin, wishing that maybe this was all just some trick. Lestrade fallowed his eyes to the casket. He flinched like he would get punished for it.

"What are we going to do?" Lestrade asked, his voice week and quivering. Mycroft shook his head.

"The only thing we can do…carry on," Mycroft sighed. Lestrade shook his head.

"I don't think that I can," Lestrade stated; the tears were starting to build back into his eyes again. Mycroft opened his mouth to argue, but John's broken voice stopped him.

"They're ready to take Sher…_him_ to the cemetery," John slurred, looking down at the two. Mycroft nodded, unable to speak or look into John's eyes. He only felt guilt when he did so. John had been the worst out of all of them to be affected. He was slowly beginning to limp again and his eyes were always drifting away; back to that horrible day that changed everyone's lives.

"John…" Lestrade trailed off as tears began threatening his eyes again. John looked down at his shaking body and smiled sadly.

"It's alright, Lestrade. Come on…we need some volunteers to help carry the casket," John stated. Lestrade stared at him dumbfounded.

"Me?" Lestrade gasped, looking around in case John had been speaking to another. John laughed at him, taking the seat next to him.

"Yeah…you're my friend, Lestrade, and even if Sherlock never said it you were his too," John said, patting Lestrade's shoulder. The DI smiled at John.

"Thanks," he stated. John nodded and then looked over to where Mycroft was avoiding him. The doctor sighed heavily, dragging his fingers through his hair.

"Mycroft." Mycroft looked up at his brother's closest friend. John took in a shaky breath and then asked silently, "When we were trapped in the desert all that long ago…Sher…" John stopped. He couldn't do it. He couldn't say his name anymore. It was too painful. He forced back the tears and breathed in a shaky breath before continuing. "I had asked him about his past. He had been smiling, but after reading what Kitty wrote…I just…I don't understand why." Mycroft stared at him and sighed deeply.

"He had all of you; a better loving family then what I ever gave him looking after him. If our past had never been so messed up he never would have met any of you…I don't see why he wouldn't be smiling," Mycroft stated. The two smiled, but the smiles didn't last for long.

"You could have saved him you know," John stated suddenly. Mycroft looked up at him and Lestrade lowered his head. "You always told me how much you worry about him, but not once did you jump in."

"John, I'm sorry-"

"Sorry?!" John scoffed, causing Mycroft to jump. He was starting to grow angry. Mycroft knew that it was still because he was trying to process the emotions that were still swarming him from that horrible day at Bart's. "Is that what you said to him after hurling him off the staircase?!" John screeched. "What the hell had you been thinking? That Moriarty wouldn't use that information to his advantage?" John's eyes were blazing with fire now.

"I never dreamt-"

"You blabbed about your little brother's personal life to a fucking psychopath that has been planning to destroy him since the beginning!" John screamed. Lestrade looked up, staring at Mycroft.

"You did what?" Lestrade said in a surprised whisper. Mycroft wetted his lips and glanced in a different direction. "Jesus," Lestrade gasped, running his hand through his hair.

"I _am_ sorry about this. You have to-"

"Stop this! We don't need to hear anything else from you! He is dead because of you, Mycroft! DEAD!" John turned on his heal and stormed off through the doorway. Mycroft looked back up, hoping that maybe Lestrade was a bit more understanding, but the DI was just glaring at him. He didn't say anything. He just stood there with angry eyes before fallowing John out of the funeral home, disappearing with the others on their way to the grave yard. Mycroft sat alone in the darkly lit funeral home his head in his hands as he took in John's words.

"Thank you," an all too familiar voice said from the doorway. Mycroft turned to find a tall thin man with curly dark hair and a big dramatic coat. He felt the corners of his lips twitch slightly as he stared at his brother, who was in one piece. He looked well for supposedly being dead.

"For what?" Mycroft stated, keeping his voice as calm as ever.

"For at least trying to cheer them up," Sherlock informed him, glancing around the room.

"They hate me."

"Tell me something new," Sherlock teased. Mycroft wrinkled his nose at his brother, but his face fell instantly as he watched his little brother. Sherlock smirked at him and looked out the window, where he could see an empty casket being laid down into the dirt. Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Looks like our secrets out," Mycroft stated, watching his brother carefully. Sherlock nodded.

"Yeah, well, I think you have more than just that to worry about," Sherlock noted. "I bet your boss wasn't very happy to find out you almost killed your own brother." Mycroft flinched.

"Yes, you're right about that. After you died, though you became the bigger picture. Our little secret has been forgotten for now; buried under the mysterious case of Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty/Richard Brook." Sherlock remained silent. His eyes stayed on John and the others as they stood in the graveyard. Mycroft tilted his head to the side, trying to get a better look at his brother's face, but he immediately wished that he hadn't. Sherlock was trembling softly. Not enough to be noticeable, but he was. A single tear was running down his cheek.

"You alright?" Mycroft asked, reaching a hand out to his little brother, but quickly pulling it back.

"Why would you care?"

"Because I'm your brother." Sherlock laughed at this, but refused to turn and face his brother.

"Yeah, I can see how strong our brotherly love is," Sherlock hissed through his teeth. Mycroft glared at him.

"Why are you even here? To patronize me? Well, Sherlock, it is working. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for ratting you out to Moriarty, for mum and dad's death, for almost killing you twice, and-"

"I'm here for them," Sherlock interrupted, nodding at John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson as they watched the casket lower into the ground.

"I thought caring wasn't an advantage," Mycroft stated, glaring at his little brother. Sherlock turned, facing his brother. Mycroft flinched. Sherlock's eyes were the same icy emotionless daggers that he had witnessed in the hospital after almost killing his brother so long ago.

"It isn't," Sherlock stated coldly. "You saw what caring did. It almost got my three best friends killed. No, it's better that I distance myself from them for the time being." Mycroft stared at his little brother, shaking his head.

"Where are you going then?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock smiled at him and walked back to the door, shouting one last thing before exiting the funeral home,

"That my dear brother is a mystery waiting to be solved."

* * *

**I'm sorry to say that this is now the end. Moriarty has carried out his plan and Sherlock has taken the fall. This turned out way differently than i had thought at first, but I am happy with the results. I hope that you all enjoyed it. If any of you have any ideas for future stories let me know. I'd like to say thank you to all those who reviewed, fallowed, and favorited. I appreciate it. **


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